


A Symphony In Four Parts

by ziennajames



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cheap drinks are probably cheap for a reason, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk cuddling shenanigans, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Make-outs, Sub!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziennajames/pseuds/ziennajames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone ever asks, which they won’t if there’s a God up above, Bucky will answer that it all seemed like a good idea at the time. Because God help him, if he’d had any less liquor in him or any more time to think it over, he would not currently have a lap full of Steve, who is nervously clasping and unclasping his fists in the fabric of his shirt, or a small crowd of drunk men cheering them on to own up to a lost bet and to put on a show, damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Symphony In Four Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Been hanging out in bluandorange's livestreams and the chat is very… Encouraging. So because I somehow made it to over 200 followers (!!!) on tumblr, they put me up to writing stucky face-fucking pwp, but I accidentally _feelings_. Oops.

If anyone ever asks, Bucky will answer that it all seemed like a good idea at the time. They didn’t go out together much anymore. It used to be just the two of them, kicking cans, then the double dates, Bucky making Steve tag along for the hell of it and because it was just better when Steve was there.

Lately the dames had gotten busier, taking office jobs that the now enlisting men had taken care off before, leaving the dating pool depleted. Having them reject Steve even more often now took the fun out of the double dates, but to go out alone with Steve, just the two of them like when they were kids, instead?

Maybe it was different now that they shared an apartment, shared everything, crammed into a too small space to contain two big personalities. Conflicting personalities too, lately, more often than not. Not that they had a choice. Stress was high and money was tight, especially with Steve having his mind set on taking art classes next to doing odd jobs at the grocery across the street, spending all the extra income immediately.

Bucky didn’t  _mind_ , per se, whatever made the punk happy made him happy most of the time, kept him out of his hair. But did that really mean Steve had to be such a spoilsport about it? Bucky was the one holding a full-time job at the docks, paying the rent, paying for the food. He could damn well decide where to spend the leftovers himself and if he thought that was getting shitfaced at a bar with his best friend, then so be it. 

He really should’ve known better than to phrase it exactly like that. At least he was used to sleeping on their ratty couch.

* * *

In the end, it’s not the promise of cheap drinks that does it, but the bar being new.

Turns out, Steve didn’t like the looks of pity from other patrons after constantly being rebuffed by his own dates. Turns out, _having dames pay more attention to my best friend isn’t exactly good for my self-esteem, Buck_. Turns out, Bucky is blind and an idiot and most of all a jerk, but forgiven,  _because what else would Steve spend time on than keeping Bucky out of trouble_.

Bucky huffs a little, but accepts graciously.

The bar - something with a green sphere? - is a fair bit walking from their place compared to any other places they’ve been. They chat on the way, Steve ribbing him about being careful not to trip over his big dumb feet, Bucky grumbling good-naturedly about he’s pretty sure the stupid had to come from somewhere. It makes the time go by faster and takes the tension out of the air. It’s nice.

The drinks really are cheaper than in any of the other bars they’ve been to before, making their budget stretch a lot further then expected. If Bucky drinks two undiluted whiskeys for every scotch-and-soda Steve ends up nursing, neither of them mentions it.

What does get noticed, then studiously ignored, then not-so-casually hinted at in conversation, is the lack of women in the establishment. There’s enough men milling about, gathering in small groups around tables or in corners, some even dancing with each other. It takes more than a few significant glances from Bucky to bring it up and he gets a sharp poke to the side back for his troubles.

He doesn’t bring it up again until something, or someone, else does.

The guy comes swaggering their way, big and blonde and all brawn and bravado, straight at Steve. The guy’s got a slick sort of feel, one Bucky isn’t sure he likes. He’s fleetingly worried that this is how he comes across to dames at times, makes a mental note to find out what it is about the guy that sets his alarm bells ringing and to avoid doing it himself.

Steve looks like a deer caught in the headlights for a second, drink stalling on the way to his mouth. 

The guy smiles, a little too broad, a little too fake for Bucky’s taste, one eyebrow raised. “Your boy treating you well?”

Steve raises his glass and finishes it in one swift move, setting it down with a clunk. “No one’s anyone’s boy here. Look, we don’t -“ 

"So you’re free tonight?"

”- want, what?”

"Free." The guy nods at Steve, a slow dip, then gestures to Bucky with a beer in his hand. "If you’re not with him, come sit with me."

Steve tenses up, squares his shoulders. The guy sighs.

"Alright, you’re new around here. That’s fine. I’m not attacking anyone, I just wanted to buy you a drink. Make conversation. Your friend too, if that’s all he is." The guy shrugs. "If you don’t want me to, I know when I’m unwanted," he says, already posed to walk away.

Steve glances sideways at Bucky, who is suddenly very focused on the way Steve’s Adams apple bobs while he swallows.

"Yeah." Swallow. Bob. Relax. "Yeah, why not." Steve smiles. The guy, Geoff, ends up sitting with them for the rest of the night instead.

He probably shouldn’t have.

If anyone ever asks, which they won’t if there’s a God up above, Bucky will answer that it all seemed like a good idea at the time. Because God help him, if he’d had any less liquor in him or any more time to think it over, he would not currently have a lap full of Steve, who is nervously clasping and unclasping his fists in the fabric of his shirt, or a small crowd of drunk men cheering them on to own up to a lost bet and to put on a show, damn it.

So damn it all to hell, that’s exactly what they do.

Steve, Bucky thinks, can be best described as brutal. It really shouldn’t be surprising how he applies himself with everything he has when given a direction. Apparently, which direction doesn’t really matter for the dedication involved.

It should be disorientating, strange,  _not wrong, this is Steve, how could anything having to do with Steve of all things be wrong_ , and it’s none of those things. If anything, Bucky feels a strange sort of possessiveness.

This is Steve, scrappy little Steve, having and attracting and causing too-many-problems-to-count Steve, but most of all it’s  _his_ Steve. Big, brawny and blonde can stuff it, as far as Bucky’s concerned, because he’s not even close to discouraging the hands that go from wrinkling his shirt to ruins to trying to find a way underneath it. He’s much, much closer to encouraging it, tugging Steve closer, tilting his head sideways and opening his mouth to make it easier for Steve to lick into and taste what he’s been drinking all evening. 

Drinking. Bar. Cat-calls. Fuck. He’s not even sure how this all started anymore, but he’s pretty sure he stopped caring an unreasonably long time ago.

If he does hold Steve in place a little longer then he should before he pushes him away and helps him detangle his limbs, well, Bucky’s warm-blooded.

Someone claps him on the shoulder, pushes a drink in his hand, and Bucky hardly takes the time to check what is in the glass before he throws it backwards. Some other guy, tall and thin and a mousy brown, is doing the same to Steve, going as far as to challenge Steve for more of where  _that little show back there_  came from. Steve,  _fuck, Steve,_  Bucky thinks, throws his own drink back while staring the guy down, which works for only as long as he manages to keep the coughing under control.

They leave while the bar is still busy, the first of the little corner-crowd they’d collected during the night. Bucky ends up half dragging, half carrying a drunk and protesting Steve over half the way home before he decides that whichever way you put it, just plain carrying Steve is the easiest way to get them home right now,  _so I swear Steven Rogers you can either work with me here or it’ll be the bridal carry_.

Bucky ends up balancing Steve on one hip while Steve has his legs around his waist and his arms clamped around his neck, absently mouthing at Bucky’s neck the rest of the way home and up the stairs, refusing to let go.

It’s a surprising show of self-control that even gets them up the stairs and through the doors, Bucky thinks, shoving their front door closed with a shoulder. There should be medals, banners, festivities to celebrate how much of an achievement it is. Bucky means to walk them to the couch, say his goodnights and drop Steve right down on it. Instead, Steve decides to try out actively sucking at his neck instead of just dragging his lips over the skin. Instead of “goodnight”, what comes out is a groan and “ _fuck, Steve, not here, not here, shit_ ,” which is nothing short of a lie because what Bucky very much wants to say now is a long string of  _yes_ , which is what he acts on.

Really, the only logical thing to do is to push Steve up against the wall and to make sure his grip is safe enough so that he doesn’t fall down. Which is exactly what Bucky does. Which leads to Steve,  _wonderful intense enthusiastic_ , ripping off at least one button when he tries to get his hands underneath an already wrinkled to hell shirt a little too fast, trying to grab on to Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky isn’t quite sure what he’s trying to grab onto anymore himself, just that as long as it’s part of Steve, it’s so very much okay.

They end up on the couch a little while later, or a long while, he isn’t sure, time seems like a very unimportant concept right now. He does know it has been long enough to shed most of their clothes: shoes, jackets, shirts and under shirts, and to unbutton most of his own pants and Steve’s. Steve, who has one hand down his own fronts, pressed between their bodies, and his other down Bucky’s. Steve, who is trying his damn hardest to grind up into Bucky while being pinned down, who is craning his neck to reach Bucky’s, well, _everything_  with his mouth while his hands are busy. Steve -  _his Steve?_  - who is looking pretty damn amazing with a full body flush and wet lips. 

Steve, who he’s also kind of afraid will give himself an asthma-attack or something similar doing all the work.

If anyone ever asks, which they won’t, because  _who asks about this kind of thing_ , he’ll probably tell them that he took one look at Steve Rogers and knew exactly what to do and how to do it. That would be a lie.

There’s fumbling, more buttons to lose, cursing at the lost buttons, and a Steve that seems very set on getting him off with a handie and on not letting Bucky focus any of his attention on Steve himself.

There’s Bucky taking the hand from his own fronts first, sucking a finger in between his lips experimentally while looking Steve straight in the eye for a reaction. There’s Bucky repeating it with two and three fingers at a time, wrapping his tongue around and between, watching Steve’s pupils blow wide and mouth fall open while he does it.

There’s whispering of  _do you know what you’re doing_  with a response of  _no Steve, shit, let me make this feel good okay_  while Bucky follows the heart-lines in Steve’s palm with the tip of his tongue. There’s licking over the pulse points on a wrist and kisses across every inch of skin that he knows just so that he can put off touching that one part he has absolutely no idea what to do with from this side of the playing field, but which he reckons can’t be much harder to work with than three fingers at a time, right? 

He places the hand he’s been lavishing on loosely behind his head while he moves on to Steve’s mouth and down to his neck and chest. Steve’s fingers spasm briefly, tightening, when Bucky scrapes past a nipple. It’s the relief that he’s doing things right that registers most clearly when he feels Steve’s hand grab his hair and  _pull_ , forcing his head further downwards. He tugs Steve’s other hand from his fronts to bring them to Bucky’s own lips, licking and tasting Steve’s fingers and sucking two of them in deep while pushing both their pants down and out of the way, letting them slide off the couch and himself with them, letting the fingers slip out of his mouth as his knees touch the ground.

It’s a sight. People might think Steve shy, or weak, or prudish, but laying here spread out on display like this Bucky is getting a whole other visual. Bucky knows better, knows the real thing. It makes the possessiveness from earlier in the evening spark warm in his gut again. The world doesn’t know what they’re missing out on, he thinks, and if that means he’ll be the only one who knows Steve like this, he can’t bring himself to be anything other than okay with it.

The hand moving through his hair is what snaps him out of his staring daze, making Bucky look up at Steve’s face. Steve wears a wry smile, like he can’t quite believe himself to be special enough to warrant the kind of look that Bucky is giving him. Bucky wants to disprove everything about that thought, wants to dig in and take Steve apart, show him all the bits and pieces Bucky thinks are worth worshipping, inside and out. If there’s anyone on this whole miserable world Bucky would want to share with what he sees when he looks at Steve, it is Steve himself. Some days he thinks Steve needs nothing short of a magic mirror to get it and he might just volunteer.

"You done?" Eyebrow raise. Swallow. Bob. A bead of sweat forming on the side of his face, sliding down. Bucky follows the movement.

"Nah. Good view."

"It’s better from up here." Steve sits up a little as Bucky makes a hum of interest, still following. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Got something real nice to look at. Wish you could see." Bucky grins, or he tries to, but he’s almost afraid that all he’s showing off is his hunger. If it does, it doesn’t seem to deter Steve, whose eyes get a little darker in response.

Bucky leans forward, feeling predatory but encouraged, hands rising to Steve’s knees. He presses into the skin, sliding his hands up Steve’s thighs, uses his nails on the way down again. He crawls closer, sitting down again between Steve’s open legs, left hand still rubbing patterns on and the right toying with the band of Steve’s fronts, leaning forward.

“‘s Easy, this. I never get to touch you. Want to, though. God, I want to.”

Steve swallows again, sitting up completely now. “Yeah?”

"All them, they don’t know what they’re missing." Bucky tugs at the fronts, lowering them on one side, bending down and licking the exposed skin.

Steve tenses, inhales and exhales deeply, then relaxes a little and places a hand in Bucky’s hair. Pets it. Pulls on it again. 

Bucky groans, leaning forward into the touch, left hand shifting to the couch to keep stable while he keeps his mouth to Steve’s skin, mumbling into it, “Fuck, you have no idea, do you.” He grazes the skin with his teeth, mouthing and biting at it a little too hard, drawing the fronts down with both his hand and his mouth while he pushes himself up. Steve pushes up into it, hovering over the couch surface, making Bucky’s job of getting the last piece of clothing off easier. 

Steve’s bigger than he should look like, Bucky thinks a little hysterically. Nothing he won’t be able to handle, probably, but out of proportion for the lithe thing it’s attached to. Bucky spends three seconds on imagining the rest of Steve adapting to those proportions before shaking himself out of it. He has no business daydreaming about anything when he has the real thing half underneath him, with other very real things enthusiastically reaching out to meet him in the middle. He sets to pressing Steve back into the couch cushions back instead, hovering over him.

As soon as he’s back within reach, Steve tangles his fingers back into Bucky’s hair, pulling him forward, smiling at him and swallowing compulsively now.

"Not fair Buck, you’re wearing too much."

"Little help then?"

"Could take off mine just fine on your own."

"The view got so much better."

"Buck, geez." Steve blushes, grabbing on a little tighter.

It’s amusing, Bucky thinks, how it’s the words that get to Steve instead of the acts.  _Bucky’s_  words, which makes it so much better. By now he’s pretty sure that most of the drink is gone from his own system, but it still seems to be hitting Steve hard, which looking back on their binge tonight is no surprise at all. Thinking about  _after_  almost makes him flinch, wondering how much Steve will remember of what they’re doing right now. He can’t decide if everything or nothing at all would be better.

At least he’ll remember.

Steve whines a little, pulling Bucky’s attention back, pulling on the hair at the back of his head to draw him in closer. He lets himself be led down, nuzzles at the inside of a thigh and mouths his way up slowly enough for Steve to start to make more frustrated noises. 

No, Bucky thinks. He won’t forget this easily.

It has a kind of funny taste and it feels like a weird thing to have in his mouth. It’s like a lollipop, but bigger and Steve-tasting instead of sugary, or like a warm ice lolly, but not quite. It’s not at all like sucking on fingers either. It’s new, it’s interesting, and it’s making Steve produce all kinds of interesting moans and mewls. Bucky soon finds out how to apply pressure by laying his tongue flat against the base when he sucks up, which makes Steve grab his hair even tighter and try to pull him back down.

He finds that he doesn’t mind it, kind of really likes it, taking the hints and running with them. Hair-pulling at the back of his head means ‘come back down’, Steve’s hands moving to the sides of his head means he wants Bucky to play with the head, fingers curling sharply into his scalp he takes as a general good job as he slides his mouth all the way down and tries out a massaging motion with his tongue. He needs to use both hands to keep Steve’s thrashing legs still so he won’t get a kick to the face while he’s busy, scratching his nails up and down in circles.

It almost unbalances Bucky when Steve starts pushing his hips forward more insistently and erratically, willing Bucky to move with him faster, making weak pushing and pulling motions. Bucky shifts to one arm across both of Steve’s legs, using his weight to hold them still enough and to hold himself up, positioning himself to make it easier for Steve to fuck up into his mouth while he struggles to keep sucking him down without choking, Steve pushing his head down all the while. His other hand he shoves down his fronts, tight and sticky and clammy, thrusting into his fist as Steve thrust into his mouth, with little rhythm to it.

He comes with the taste of bitter salt on his tongue, coming to to Steve’s sheepish apologies about  _I wanted to warn you, I did I just_. He can’t bring himself to mind. He lays his head down on Steve’s thigh while Steve rubs the apologies into his scalp.

It feels like ages until their breathing returns to normal and even longer for them to get up, which they only do because Bucky complains about the cold settling in _these old working bones_ and  _stop swatting at me you punk._ Steve laughs at him, relatively comfortable from his higher vantage point.  _There’s enough room on the damn couch_ , he says at the same time Bucky tries to get him to come off of it and  _let’s go to bed already_. 

The bed, Steve decides, is an acceptable alternative only if Bucky carries him over. Which he does. Bridal style. Steve laughs and tries to hit him before unceremoniously getting dumped on their mattress.

Bucky’s last thought before he falls asleep, naked and curling himself tight around Steve with his face half smothered by his pillow, is how if anyone (Steve excepted, obviously) ever asks, he’s not going to tell them  _shit_  about any of this. This is all his, just his, at least until morning.

He’ll face that hurdle when the sun comes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Have I mentioned yet that I cry about sub!Bucky thoughts [on tumblr](http://capspatrioticpecs.tumblr.com) a lot?


End file.
